Evolution of a Butterfly
by somedayangeline
Summary: How did I, Effie Trinket, wind up part of such a Rebellion?
1. Chapter 1

So Panem, at long last, is finally at peace. President Snow has met his maker (who likely will not be too forgiving). Coin is dead, as well, thanks to the Mockingjay. The Victors, thank goodness, have scrapped their plan to hold one more Hunger Games using Capitol children. Many on both sides are dead, but what's the use of continuing to fuel the cycle of revenge and hatred? The Hunger Games belong in the past, and it can't be too soon, if you ask me. We fought this battle because we believe that killing children for sport is barbaric. But we can't celebrate by turning into barbarians ourselves. That's not right.

Yesterday, I said goodbye to Katniss. As I leaned in to embrace her, I whispered something in her ear. We've had plenty of little disagreements along the way, and there has been much I've said that has gone in one ear and out the other without ever making direct contact with the brain, but this time, I knew she heard me. I told her to go find something. Something very, very important. The life of a victor.

What's more, I knew she understood. Of course, it won't be easy. Not for her, nor for any of us. We all have nights where sleep is impossible, or ones where we wake from nightmares, wet enough to soak the sheets, but dread going back because of what terrors might await. Of course, it's far worse for Victors like Katniss and Peeta, who bear the additional trauma of having fought in the Games. But we all have lost loved ones in this war; all had moments where dying seemed preferable to struggling through another day. We've all suffered, and it is past time for the healing to begin.

Now that it's over, you might wonder what I'm going to do next. Right now, I'm not too sure, but I'm sure it will come to me in time. But maybe you are wondering how I wound up here in the first place. How did I, Effie Trinket, become involved in a real, honest-to-goodness revolution?

To understand, we will have to go back to the beginning...a month before the first Reaping.

And do bear with me, if I seem to go slowly at times, for it's quite a tale.

But rest assured, every word is true.


	2. Chapter 2

Little Butterfly. That's what my father always called me.

Out of three children, I was the happy-go-lucky one. The one they could rely on to take bad news calmly, not bursting into tears like my sister, or shouts like my brother. The one they didn't have to worry about. The one they could trust to do everything expected of her. And I didn't let them down, not once.

As I grew up, I came to realize the importance of light-heartedness and frivolity as a shield. As I progressed through school, I made sure to get middling marks: not low enough to displease my parents but neither high enough to make me a target of mockery among my peers. After graduation, I took an office job in the Games[ building, and somewhat to my surprise, eventually managed to reach my current position as Escort for the Reaping.

This gave me many opportunities to see the inner workings of how the Games are organized. It is far more complex than I'd ever imagined as a girl. From the hairstyle of the escorts to the wording of the mayor's speech, all the way to how to turn a traumatic or embarrassing moment into a photogenic one, it takes a lot of work to put together a successful Reaping.

In addition, I got a glimpse into the inner workings of our esteemed President Coriolanus Snow. A complex man. And I got a sense of who he considers his most dangerous enemies? Who are those who think for themselves.

Which Hunger Games' victors are most likely to become targets of Snow's wrath? The bright ones. The ones who see through him. Of course, it's not made public, but Snow has ways of punishment, subtle and otherwise, to keep the Victors in line. Disposing of loved ones and making it look like an accident is the vilest, but he has others.

So, you see, in these turbulent Panem times, being underestimated is an asset. Who could possibly find a butterfly threatening?

The day I received my Games Assignment, rain was coming down in sheets, a nasty day indeed. Tributes from other districts sometimes come to the Capitol believing that our weather is artificially engineered, but it's not. We may eat, live and dress better than the other Districts, but we get the same weather. That day, I'd bundled up in a mackintosh, which I hung dripping from a hook in the waiting room and took a seat as instructed. So as to hide my anxiety, I picked up a magazine from the coffee table and pretended to be absorbed an article about the latest dance craze. Of course, I'm eager to find out my District Assignment, but it doesn't do to look too eager.

After awhile, when I've moved on to a piece on a new plastic surgery that will make you resemble your cat (no thank you, I'm a dog person), I hear an ahem, followed by, "Ms. Trinket, Mr. Crane will see you now."

 _About time_ , I think, though of course, I know Seneca's a busy man.

"Ms. Trinket, how are you today?" he says warmly, remaining on his feet until I've sat down. Such a gentleman.

We exchange a few minutes of social chit-chat, then he gets down to business. "I understand that for the past four years, you've been assigned to District 12, am I right?"

Of course, he already knows this, but I nod. In my lap, my freshly manicured fingers cross themselves. Surely, this time will be different. Surely, the powers-that-be will have noticed what a valiant job I've done so far with the least promising District and see fit to reward me.

"...the same one again."

"Oh," I say, struggling to hide my disappointment. Mother's words flash through my mind, a reminder from childhood. _Turn that frown upside down!_ Then with prom queen poise, I beam, groping for appropriate adjectives. "Fantastic! District 12 is so...quaint in their customs. And their Tributes are so...plucky. "

Seneca smiles back at me, relieved that I'm not going to make a fuss. He knows perfectly well that by "quaint", I mean "backward,' and by "plucky," I mean, "have the etiquette of hungry wolves." "Well, you did such a terrific job last year, Ms. Trinket, even our President was impressed. I know there isn't much to work with...but we can always rely on you."

 _You bet your boots, you can_ , I think, though it does occur to me that there's a disadvantage in being seen as reliable. "Of course. I'll do my best."

And that's that.

To understand my disappointment, you should know that in other Districts, the Reaping is treated properly: as a celebration of sorts. Districts 1, 2 and 4 even have the advantage that someone will often volunteer to take one of the chosen Tribute's place. Now that's not hard to spin at all. But District 12 has only had two winners that I can remember, and the only surviving one, a man named Haymitch Abernathy is well, usually alcohol-enhanced on these occasions. The odds of him stepping up to volunteer are low. The odds that a Tribute will return triumphant are abysmally low, and so the whole occasion is dealt with there with gritted teeth and strained smiles. Not a lot to work with.

District 12 is a mining district, known primarily for its coal production. If you do something to a lump of coal (though I've forgotten exactly what), it will transform into a diamond, a jewel that we in the Capitol prize. So I guess the lesson there is that the most beautiful things can come from unpromising material.

I must keep that in mind, and do my job to the best of my ability. Still, I can't help but feel disappointed.

Again I hear Mother. _Precious little is free in this world, but a smile always is!_

OK then, Mother, I will smile. I will do my darndest. And hopefully, this year will be my last for District 12.

Let's hope.


	3. Chapter 3

Here's the thing about District 12.

They have no hotel! Not even a motel. Nor do they even have an inn. I guess there's just not much of a demand for one - not to be cruel, but who would visit District 12 unless well, they had to? Like me. Which means the closest they can come is putting me up in a house in the Victors' Village, which is what they do for this year's Reaping. The mayor's wife does stock the cupboards and fridge (the latter which not many residents have, I admit), so it's not like I lack for a proper meal. Still...

A friend managed to snag the post of the emcee for District 4 this year, and _they_ know to roll out the red carpet. They have a real five star hotel, actually several. And their hosts are a cordial group of former Victors, who eagerly await Reaping Day and do their best to make sure it's a festive and television-worthy occasion.

Oh well. Enough complaining. _When life hands you lemons, make lemonade -_ another one of Mother's little sayings. Annoying, but she has a point. So from now on, I vow to make the best of things. And it's not like the house I'm in is uncomfortable, though it's isolated, as there's only one other Victor in the vicinity - Haymitch Abernathy. Not that I am about to voluntarily seek out his company. No, I'll be seeing him soon enough, thank you.

The eve of the Reaping, I sleep soundly, and wake early to see beams of morning sunlight dancing on the plain wooden walls. Looking out the window - there's already hints of blue sky appearing, I dress and descend the stairs to forage. But while I've been slumbering, someone has entered and left a basket of pastries and muffins on the table, along with a bouquet of flowers. It's likely the mayor's wife - I've met her before, and she's a nice sort. If I remember right, her sister participated in the Quarter Quell (the same one Haymitch won), and she suffers from migraines. A pity. I wonder if she's aware of the latest treatments, though currently, they're only available in the Capitol.

Making a mental note to thank Mrs. Undersee when I see her later, I decide to take a brief walk. It's a beautiful day, and it's going to be a big one. As I close the door, I see another early bird (yes, Mother, I know that saying, too): a slender adolescent girl, her hair hanging in a braid down her back, striding in the direction of the woods. Which are off limit, I know, but the Peacekeepers here turn a blind eye to illegal hunting. I suppose they appreciate the fresh game. Well, it's not to my taste, but I can see why it would appeal to some. And I suppose it's not hurting anything.

The girl doesn't see me, but tilting her chin up, keeps moving confidently toward her destination - whatever it may be. I don't know who she is, where she's going or why, but I can't help hoping the odds are in her favor today.

...

Later on, I join Mayor Undersee on the stage. His daughter Madge, a pretty well-mannered girl, is among the young people gathering into their age-designated groups today. I look for the girl with the braid, but the crowd is simply too dense. A whiff of whiskey signals to me without my having to turn around that Haymitch has arrived. At least, he's not late like last time. I give him a stiff nod and a somewhat strained smile, but he ignores me and takes his place with a frown. Irritating man. He hasn't even tried to conceal the fact that he's as drunk as a skunk - not even a hint of mint mouthwash or breath candy can I detect.

Here, as I've mentioned, the atmosphere is far from festive. The only merriment comes from a certain group of people taking bets on who will be chosen. I suppose the sobriety is warranted, as the Tributes here are, at best, dark horses in the races. Later, when I have to chat up potential sponsors, I'll take my usual angle - the plucky underdog one. What else can I do? Oh, and I mustn't forget to mention how coal transforms into pearls. Poetic and persuasive, at least that's what I'll be hoping.

But now it's my moment to shine, and I stand and make my way to the crystal Reaping ball. "Ladies first," I quip, but as always, it falls so flat I can practically hear the thud. Oh well. No time to fret over that. Here goes.

"Primrose Everdeen," I say, enunciating each syllable with precision so there can be no doubt who it is I mean.

There's a gasp - no doubt from the girl's mother. People crane their heads trying to pick out the Tribute. And after a long moment, a petite blonde detaches herself from the throng and bravely walks toward the stage. She's so small - obviously one of the twelve-year-olds. This will make my job harder, as no one, not even a lot of the Career districts approve of children this young being chosen. But wait. Suddenly, I hear a voice. Another girl's voice, slightly shaky but with an unmistakable note of defiance.

"I volunteer!" she cries. "I volunteer as tribute."

 _Well_. This is unexpected. More gasps from the crowd - and who can blame them? I don't think this has ever happened before, at least not in my lifetime. Then I catch sight of the girl - it's the same one I saw this morning. But just as I am seizing the moment, hopefully proving my mettle to those in charge who are watching, Haymitch stumbles into my path, knocking my wig askew, mumbling something I can't quite catch - the wind has picked up - but that I expect is completely inappropriate. The mayor reaches out an arm to stop him, but it's too late - he's already toppled off the stage.

 _Good riddance_ , I can't help but think, as I continue, as I reach up to twitch my wig (hot pink and perhaps the brightest hair of anyone here) back into place. Pretending there's been no interruption whatsoever, I continue. The volunteer is Katniss Everdeen, the older sister of Primrose. Unusual, siblings as a rule, don't volunteer. For a moment, I wonder if _I_ would have the courage to do the same for my sister. But there's no time to linger over such thoughts, it's time to finish with as much dignity as possible.

The boy Tribute turns out to be a sweet young man named Peeta Mellark, who is the son of the local baker. While he and Katniss are taken into custody and given time to say their goodbyes, I head off in search of some refreshment myself. Not alcohol, but my throat is quite dry, and I could definitely use something to quench my thirst.

It's over - at least the first part. Now I'll get ready to board the train back to the Capitol. Later, I'll welcome Katniss and Peeta. Right now, I'm exhausted, but I still have a lot to do. Also, I'm in need of mirror - something tells me that my hasty attempt to adjust my wig might not have quite worked. And I really do need to give my makeup a touch-up. When I see Haymitch again, I'll take the high road - inquire if he's all right and not once allude to the possibility that his behavior might have cost me my chance to be promoted to a better district next year. Surely not - who would blame me for his disreputable behavior.

What a day it's been, and how much more there still is to do...


	4. Chapter 4

Hindsight, they say, is a wonderful thing.

If you ask some people, they'll tell you that they saw the seeds of a fiery leader in Katniss Everdeen even before the first Hunger Games. They'll say they could tell from the moment she volunteered at the Reaping for her sister, that she was born to be the Mockingjay, the symbol of our Rebellion.

If you ask me, they are lying. It's easy to look back and award yourself powers of insight you didn't possess the first time around. Not that it's wrong, not exactly. Just human nature.

When I was little, my father told me about mockingjays. Originally bred in the Capitol, they were coopted by the people they were supposed to be spying upon. They turned the tables, and eventually were abandoned after the Capitol realized what had occurred. But the mockingjays didn't die off - they bred and though they lost the power of speech, they retained the ability to replicate complicated songs. They still flourish today in the more rural districts. An example of how even the Capitol can fail, though I'm not sure that's what my father intended when he told me the story. At the time, I think he just meant to entertain me before my bedtime.

When Katniss boarded the train after that fateful Reaping, I noticed she was wearing a mockingjay pin on her shirt. I'd later learn that it was given to her by her friend, Madge, daughter of Mayor Undersee, whose sister-in-law had been killed in the same Quarter Quell that Haymitch won. Because it possessed no hidden weaponry or poison that would give her an unfair advantage in the arena, she was allowed to wear it, and the rest, as they say, is history. The symbol caught on like wildfire until it was incorporated into the Rebellion.

...

That night, we have dinner on the train: Peeta, Katniss and me, and it's then I begin to get a real glimpse of how contrary Katniss can be. Why I merely compliment her and Peeta on their table manners, and she responds by putting down her utensils and eating with her fingers! Honestly, Haymitch at his most inebriated has more finesse than that.

Later I would come to admire Katniss's obstinacy - at first grudgingly and then wholly, knowing that it was that quality that kept her going. After all, that kind of toughness, that resilience must be necessary to survive one's growing up in the Seam. As lacking as she was in many rules of etiquette that were second nature to Capitol folk, Katness would ultimately have the qualities she needs to survive in the arena.

That evening, before I retire for the night, I take a moment to pop out for a bit of fresh air. As I step out on the observation platform on the train, I feel a rush of cool wind, which is welcome after the stuffiness of the interior. I'm just adjusting to the quiet out here, when I hear a familiar voice. Haymitch's.

"Look up," he says.

I do, and am dazzled by the sheer array of stars. "It's beautiful," I reply. "We can't see much of this in the Capitol - all the electric light drowns it out."

"And that's not the only thing it tries to disguise," he says softly. He sounds like he's recovered from the day's excesses, though how, I have no clue. I'm tempted to caution him against making statements like that, but I know better. Before I knew him, I would have tossed off a warning, but now I know better. He only had to tell me once about what happened after he returned from his Games - the Quarter Quell, no less! - and found everyone he loved gone. Before, I hadn't realize how much he'd already lost.

...

Despite the fact that I have every possible comfort at my fingertips, I don't sleep well that night. I keep waking up, but rather than allowing myself to be lulled back to sleep by the motion of the train, I toss and turn. (Later on, this would become a regular occurrence.) Toward morning, I manage to drift off, but then have the most disquieting dream.

I dreamt that I was back at the Reaping, but this time, everything was going splendidly. The weather was perfect, Haymitch was nowhere in sight, you get the picture. Only as I reached for the glass bowl, I couldn't shake a nagging feeling that something, somewhere was wrong. Beaming at the crowd so they wouldn't know anything was wrong, I did a mental inventory: shoes, dress, accessories, makeup - all perfect. Then it hit me, and I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach.

In my hurry to dress that morning, I'd completely forgotten my wig!

Some people say that they dream of being naked in public places, but I've only had dreams where everything was picture perfect - but my wig is missing. Well, it's not always my wig. Sometimes it's my shoes. Or my gloves.

I'm not the type to analyze these things, but I can't help wondering what that says about me.

...

"Haymitch, may I have a minute, please," I begin sweetly but in tones that brook no argument. Reluctantly, he nods. "What can I do for you?" (Once, he addressed me as "sweetheart," and I let him know right away that he was _not_ to ever do that again.)

"I'd like to know what strategies you're planning for Katniss and Peeta," I say.

"We're still working on that," he replies.

Holding onto my smile, I nod, like he's being helpful. "Well, then, can you possibly give me a few hints? I'm meeting with potential sponsors today, and it would be good to at least have something of an idea."

He just shrugs. Honestly, I do not get paid enough for this. But I did hear that he promised Peeta that he would sober up, and he's been able to pull himself together in the past to advise the Tributes, so I make myself believe that somehow, things are going to work out.

My hopes start to rise the night of the Opening Ceremony, my jaw drops when I see Katniss and Peeta. Cinna has truly outdone himself this time.

No nudity, thank goodness, poorly concealed by a layer of coal dust, no. Just these amazing black bodysuits with capes that are literally on fire. Or at least, swoosh up with flames once the chariots begin moving. A miracle happens - and my Tributes outshine all the other districts' - even 1, even 2.

And for a moment, all the stars align, the crowds cheer so loud, they drown out all else, and it's pure magic.

...

If I hadn't long broken myself of chewing my fingernails - a problem solved once I discovered fake ones - I'd definitely be munching them right now. It's time for the Tributes to enter, one by one, and perform some stunt that the Gamemakers will then score. I expect that Katniss won't resist the temptation to show off her archery talent, though I've no idea what Peeta will do - there won't be any eggs or flour with which he could whip up a delectable dish.

Afterwards, however, I know it must have gone badly because Katniss barricades herself in her bedroom and refuses to come out, much less tell us what transpired. Later, at dinner, we do get the whole unfortunate story. Irked because the Gamemakers were ignoring her, Katniss shot an arrow straight into the pig dish they were consuming. Peeta, too, lost his temper at being ignored, but his way of showing it was much less, well, inflammatory.

Still, for the first time, I feel like I'm entirely on their side. Surprisingly, I don't feel like chiding or scolding either. Instead, I feel a pang of indignation on their behalf.

"It serves them right," I blurt out. "It's their job to pay attention to you."

They all look stunned, no doubt at witnessing me go off script. For once, I don't care, though. It's a daring thing to say, and it could land me in hot water if the wrong person heard, but I mean every word. And Katniss winds up waltzing off with an eleven. An eleven! Though it may be reverse psychology on the part of the Gamemakers. They may simply hope to encourage the other Tributes to target her in the arena. Maybe.

But then again, maybe not.

...

Before the interviews with Caesar Flickerman, Katniss and I practice etiquette. Though she looks stunning in the outfit that Cinna has designed, she's still awkward in her movements and prickly in her manners. At last, I try a new tactic - explaining the importance of maintaining a smile, even though the other person present is aggravating you, but she still doesn't seem to get it. So I give up, and just cross my fingers that this won't be a complete disaster. Maybe Peeta can successfully sell the star-crossed lovers' angle enough to lend Katniss some appeal, though at this point, I haven't a clue what either one's strategy is. So far, it's been rather inconsistent.

Luckily, Caesar, who's had many years of setting Tributes at their ease and making them appear at their best, comes through. He manages to make Katniss comfortable enough so that she comes off as a charming young woman, not a prickly pear. And Peeta, going last, manages to put a lump in every throat present when he admits his long-standing love for a special girl, then admits that even if he emerges the Victor of the Games, it won't matter because "she came here with me."

After that, I want to cheer because I know we'll have at least a couple sponsors. Though it sounds cold, the truth is, a good sponsor can mean the difference between life and death. Rules are not particularly stringent, so sponsors are free to send medicine, food, etc. One year, a boy, a handsome fifteen-year-old who sent hearts swooning with a simple smile, received a trident from his district, known for its fish products, and after that, there was little doubt who was going to win.

Now that Peeta, as Haymitch puts it, has transformed Katniss into the object of wistful, doomed desire, sponsors should be lining up around the block. Well, perhaps not quite that, but I think it's safe to say, they will have outside help once the Games begin. I hope so anyway because despite myself, I've gotten fond of these two.

...

And then, it's time for the Tributes to say goodbye, to get their trackers implanted, change their clothes into the standard arena uniform, and board the Hovercraft. As usual, I try hard not to think about what's almost impossible to forget, that this is the last time I will ever see District 12's again. Star-crossed lovers in this case is not just a description cannily concocted to tug the heartstrings of potential sponsors but the truth. Yes, Haymitch was an exception, but if you ask me, I believe you need wits as sharply hewn as a spear in order to emerge the winner. Not only that, but you need the ability to masquerade - to fool everyone from viewers to your fellow Tributes that you're whatever you've decided to be once the signal sounds, and you are free to step off the platform.

Not to mention that my Tributes are always up against boys and girls who've been training their entire life, and who regard the chance to compete as an honor. I know I couldn't survive a day in that arena, even if I had support from a dozen sponsors. No, as much as I try to put on an optimistic front, I know in my heart that neither Katniss nor Peeta will be the ultimate winner.

Of course, I don't let this show when I say goodbye. I do, however, manage to make a major blunder, which I don't excuse. It happens just as we were about to part.

"I wouldn't be at all surprised if I didn't get promoted to a decent district next year!" I chirp before I can stop myself.

Oops. Open mouth, insert foot. Too bad that Peeta's and Katniss's last memory of me has to be this one.

 _Let the Games begin_ , I whisper, after they've gone. _And may the odds be ever in your favor._


	5. Chapter 5

After I say goodbye to my Tributes, I head for the VIP lounge which is equipped with everything one could possibly wish to watch the Hunger Games in comfort. There's seats so plush, you can easily nap in them, a cinema-sized screen, and a wet bar, the last of which is already being used as I enter. The other mentors eye me, but without the tension of the past week - now that the Games have begun, we're all in the same position: mere spectators. We can, of course, authorize gifts to be delivered into the arena - via silver parachutes this year - but the contents are up to the sponsors.

I take a seat next to Haymitch, who's already made inroads on the free drinks, and watch as the Tributes are placed on the platform. No one is to move until the signal is given. Once in awhile, someone gets too eager and winds up being blown to bits. I don't know if this encourages the other Tributes (one less to worry about) or rattles them. It would certainly upset me.

As a girl watching the Games with my family, my father taught me the rules according to him. Number One: Stay alive, even if it means passing up certain goodies. That includes all the weapons, survival tools, and other supplies that are placed at what's called the Cornucopia - positioned temptingly in the line of the Tributes' sight, so when they are free to move, few can resist. Which is why it's one of the bloodiest parts of the Games. When we were kids, my sister Charm always covered her eyes during the opening of the Hunger Games."Tell me when it's over," she'd squeal. (But I often caught her peeking.) Typically, the Careers converge on the Cornucopia, while others who've been warned by their mentors, head out to find a reliable source of water. That's what Haymitch instructed Peeta and Katniss to do. And that's exactly what Peeta does.

But not Katniss. No, she heads for the Cornucopia with the rest of the pack. After a moment, I notice a bow and a quiversful of arrows on the ground - so that's what she must be heading for. Beside me, Haymitch groans at the sight of his instructions being flagrantly disregarded. And it's true - I'm only half sure Katniss is going to make it out of the melee alive, but she does - although not without a knife lodging in the backpack she also scoops up, and flees into the woods.

"That should come in handy," Haymitch mutters. I suppose he means the knife. I cross my fingers and take a moment to hope that whatever's in the backpack is also helpful. And that when Katniss does find water, she's smart enough not to drink it directly. Because Rule Number Two is: Take nothing at face value. And nobody knows this better than Haymitch - during the Quarter Quell, the Tributes were set into an arena of rare beauty - most of which turned out to be a trap. But Katniss has years of hunting experience under her belt, and she must know this already. As for Peeta, I hope Haymitch was more detailed in his instructions. Peeta and Katniss are going to need every bit of help they can get.

We don't see Katniss for awhile - instead the camera follows other Tributes, including Peeta, who apparently decides that teaming up with the Careers is his best bet at survival. He could be right - it's usually the Tributes who form alliances and pool their skills and supplies that last the longest. And the Careers have years of training behind them. Briefly, I wonder how they plan to use Peeta. He's strong - even if he hasn't been tutored in weaponry - and he's probably going to be able to concoct a meal out of whatever they can find. Or, because they've already secured enough food, make it tastier than it might be otherwise.

"Smart lad," Haymitch says at this point. "Now _he_ might have a shot at making it out alive."

"True, but he's also just made an enemy out of Katniss," I point out. "Or at least, she'll be much less likely to warn him of danger, should she find herself in that position."

Haymitch shrugs and drains his glass. "Care for a drink?" he asks.

"No thank you." I keep my eyes on the screen. After the initial bloodbath, the Gamemakers let the Tributes catch their breath, or at least search out shelter without interfering. But it pays to remember Rule Number Three: When you think you're safe, you probably aren't. The Gamemakers know that this is supposed to be _entertainment_ , and intend to oblige. If the Tributes aren't stirring up enough drama themselves, the Gamemakers step into create some. With the latest technology literally at their fingertips, they can - and do - produce fire, floods, snow, drought, wind storms and landslides, to name a few.

I assume Katniss does find water, although it's not exciting enough to be televised. But the next time I see her, she's running for her life - trying to outwit a wall of flame.

"Someone has a very sick sense of humor," I say to Haymitch, shaking my head. I almost can't watch, but force myself to look at the screen. If it were me, I'd be a whimpering, writhing mess on the ground, but Katniss has many things I lack: courage, fortitude and ingenuity being among them, and she manages to escape, though not without multiple burns.

"That's it," I say. "She'll need medicine for those kind of burns, if she's going to make it. Tell our sponsor to authorize some."

I can tell from Haymitch's face that I'm in for a fight. Well, so be it. "I don't see what difference it makes. She's not going to win. Maybe prolonging her misery isn't something we should do."

"Just send the damn medicine," I snap.

He stares at me. "Why, Effie Trinket, I do believe that's the first time I've ever heard you swear." But then he softens. "All right, if you insist. If you're positive there's no other remedy."

"Not one that will work on those burns," I reply. "I may not be a doctor, but I do know that." I close my eyes. Suddenly, I picture Katniss's sister, Prim, watching, and my throat tightens. "Please," I add."

He stands up and goes out, presumably to make a very important call, one that will save Katniss's life. I sink back in my seat feeling exhausted. _If I feel this way, how must Katniss feel_ , I wonder. But I don't let myself complete the thought.

The next time I see Katniss, she's taken refuge in a tree. But the camera pans to a gray lumpy object near her - a tracker jackers' nest. I don't think she's seen it yet, but you can't blame her because something else more urgent has claimed her attention. The group that includes several Careers and Peeta has gathered at the base.

I assume she's received the medicine because her face looks much less ashen. She must be feeling better, she eventually cuts down the nest, giving her a chance to escape yet again.

Her next act is to team up with Rue, the little girl from District 11. Beside me, Haymitch groans, but if you ask me, it's a smart thing to do. From what I've seen of her, Rue knows her way around the woods, too. So far, she's stayed alive, while Tributes twice her size have fallen. In this case, shrewdness, skill and speed pays off.

Katniss, apparently feeling better, cooks up a wild goosling she's shot with the edible roots and berries Rue has collected. Rue treats Katniss's tracker jacker stings with some kind of leaf remedy, and in turn, Katniss shares her burn medicine. Well, now I'm doubly glad I insisted, since it's helping Rue, as well. If you ask me, twelve-year-olds have no business being selected and sent into the arena. But I don't make the rules.

Together, the girls hatch a plan, the specifics of which become clear, once the camera focuses on Katniss creeping toward the Cornucopia where the food supplies are being guarded by a boy who's allied himself with the Careers. Another girl, one with the red hair and sly manner of a fox, has already managed to make it there and glean supplies without getting hurt. But Katniss goes her one better - she manages to blow the whole pyramid up.

This reminds me suddenly of Haymitch - in the Quarter Quell, he, too, managed to manipulate the invisible force field that surrounds the arena. A first in Games history, I do believe. I look over at him, but if he's remembering his own Games, his face shows no sign of it.

"Thanks again for sending the medicine," I say, because I truly don't know what else to.

"You're welcome." He sighs wearily. "It looks like our Girl On Fire has a few tricks up her sleeve. I reckon the Gamemakers aren't too thrilled. I'm sure there are young viewers out there who won't forget this trick."

"Do you think they'll send more fire after her?" I ask. If you ask me, it doesn't seem likely, but you never know.

"Doubt it. It wouldn't have the same shock value the second time around."

He's right. Sometimes cynicism comes closest to the truth.

Haymitch's guess turns out to be correct. Unfortunately, something worse, much worse happens when Rue is taken by surprise and killed by a Career. Now, I'm in tears, I can't help it - no matter that I'm a veteran at this and should be hardened by now, I'm not. Looking around the room, I see a few other people wiping their eyes.

It never gets easier. If I'm honest. You'd have to have a heart of stone not to get attached to at least some of the Tributes besides the ones you mentored.

Katniss holds Rue as she takes her last breath and sings to her. Again, I dab at my eyes, not caring that my makeup must be running and I look a complete mess.

"Here, use this." Someone presses a tissue into my hand, and it takes me a moment to realize that it's Haymitch.

"Thanks," I sniffle. I know what he must think of me - a silly, frivolous woman who cares more about her image than anything else. But I'm not. At least, I think there's more to me than that. "Oh, look."

On screen, Katniss gathers flowers and drapes them over Rue's body, a beautiful tribute to a brave girl who passed away far too soon and for a senseless reason - simply to provide entertainment for the masses in the Capitol.

"I think I'm going to head home," I say. "I can't watch anymore right now."

"Do you need an escort there?" Haymitch asks.

"Oh, no,' I say, startled. "I think I can make it.'

"Well, then, I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

 _Yes, you will._

I tell you, it never gets easier.

Never.

End


	6. Chapter 6

By the time I make it home, I'm feeling no better, but at least here, I don't have to hide my feelings with the expected facade. As I flop gracelessly onto my couch, my phone rings.

"Hello?"

She doesn't bother with a greeting. "Oh, Effie, that poor little girl! I'm still crying. Oh, and those flowers - and the singing - oh, it was just so sad."

It's my sister, Charm, and as much as I love her, I kind of wish I had a ready excuse to end the call. But I don't, so I nod and make agreeing noises while she goes on and on about how awful Rue's death is.

"Rue," I say, after a minute because Charm keeps calling her "the poor little girl." "Her name is - was - Rue."

"I know," she says. "Oh, this is sad, but can you imagine how good this is going to be for ratings. And you! They'll **have** to promote you to a decent District next year, after this."

She's right. And up until today, that was exactly what I wanted. But now, somehow, I'm not jumping for joy anymore at the prospect.

"I know." It comes out flat as hour-old soda, and even my usually bubbly sister notices.

"Eff, you don't sound too good. Want me to come over?"

No! "Er, that's sweet, but I'll be all right. Look, I think I hear the doorbell. I'll call you back later, okay?"

I'm not lying - there **is** someone at the door. But when I open it, I see the last person in the world, I expect.

Haymitch. Looking more awkward and out of place I've ever seen him before.

"Can I come in?" he says. Wordlessly, I step aside and gesture. It suddenly occurs to me that this is the first time Haymitch has ever been over here. But my hostess instincts take over, and I point to the couch, into which he sinks.

"How about a drink?" I say, before I realize the inappropriateness of the question and scramble to recover. "I...er...have coffee. Or tea, whatever you want."

"Don't bother," he says, but he doesn't sound rude, just his usual boorish self "So, you looked pretty shattered this afternoon," he continues. "I don't think I've ever seen you act like that before."

I gulp. "I'm all right."

He raises his eyebrows. "Are you? Because I'm not so sure about that."

And the next thing I know, we embrace, and all the self-control I've managed to exert shatters, and I start crying. More accurately, I start sobbing, and even knowing that my makeup is running in rivulets down my face, and I must look horrible, doesn't stop me. Finally, Haymitch leans over and extracts a handful of tissues from the box, which I take and mop my face, although I know by now, the damage is irreversible.

"Thanks," I say. "I guess I wasn't as fine as I was pretending."

"Well, you do a superb job of pretending," he says, "but sometimes it's not the best thing to do, you know?"

I sniffle, chastened. "I know."

"Actually, I came over for another reason," he says, and my heart drops. He wasn't coming specifically to make sure I felt better. Oh well, that was silly to think in the first place.

"So what do I owe the honor of this visit, after all?" I ask, wadding up the tissue and aiming for the wastebasket. It misses, but neither of us scramble to get it. Haymitch just watches me steadily as he speaks.

"After you left, President Snow called a meeting for tomorrow morning, to which I happen to be invited, about the possibility of changing the Game rules - this time only, so that two Tributes can win. What do you think of that?"

He's truly floored me. "I...I don't know," I stammer. "This isn't a joke, is it?"

He snorts. "I know I have an off sense of humor, but no, I would not joke about something like this."

"Oh." I lean back in the cushions deflated. "What time?"

"Nine-thirty, bright and early. At least for me. You don't have to go, though, Effie."

I don't like this at all. "Why not? I **am** one of the District mentors."

He shrugs. "Don't shoot the messenger. I don't think Snow thinks it's necessary."

"But why not?" I persist.

Another shrug. "Snow is up to something, and you should be glad you don't have to witness this firsthand."

"But it does affect me," I say. "Katniss and Peeta are both of our Tributes. What if I come anyway? Can he really stop me?"

That makes Haymitch throw up his hands, but I can tell he's faking the gesture. "I doubt it. Listen, are you going to be okay? I have to go soon."

Suddenly, I realize that he does care, in his way, and this way is all that's really fair to expect of him.

"Sure. I think I've pretty much run out of tears for today," I say, and we laugh.

* * *

After Haymitch leaves, I do some thinking.

There's going to be a meeting to decide the Tributes' fates, and I'm not invited. I have to admit part of me feels petty and indignant - like a little kid who hasn't been invited to a birthday party. But it's deeper than that - as maddening as she sometimes is, I've grown to care for Katniss very much, as well as Peeta. I don't like the thought of being kept in the dark about what's going to happen to them. If President Snow is pulling strings, I have a right to know.

I'm not invited. But I should be.

So the next day, I rise early, spruce myself up to my usual standards, and head out.

* * *

They startle as I push the door open. They're all assembled in a circle around the table, as I expect, including Haymitch, who stares at me as if I've suddenly grown another head.

"Well, Ms. Trinket, this **is** a surprise," President Snow says. I can see the gears working overtime in his mind trying to figure out just what I'm doing here. "Can we help you with something?"

He's expecting it to be something frivolous, I think, but take a deep breath. "Yes, I heard that there was going to be a meeting about the fate of the remaining Tributes, and as two of them are mine, I thought it would make sense for me to attend, too."

The President doesn't like this at all, I can tell, but he can hardly eject me without looking ungentlemanly. After all, what harm can a butterfly suddenly flying through an open window do? He sighs heavily and gestures at the table.

"Take a seat then, Ms. Trinket. Now, as I was saying, we have a bit of a - situation - here. Both Peeta and Katniss have proven themselves to be outstanding competitors. However, we simply cannot break precedent and permit two winners. Game rules have always been very strict. One winner only, even if it means taking out your fellow District member. If we give Peeta and Katniss both the opportunity to survive, this will give future Tributes false hope that they, too, can be the exceptions. We can't take this risk."

"Sir," a voice says, and I turn to see Caesar Flickerman looking rather drab without his usual wig and gaudy TV attire, "from the start, whether or not it was a planned strategy or not, the angle of star-crossed lovers has appealed to a good portion of our audience. There's definitely more people than usual out there rooting for District 12. Why not give them a classically happy ending - or at least the possibility? After all, we don't know yet what the outcome will be."

If you'd asked me beforehand, I would have predicted that I'd be too shy to speak, but somehow I find my voice. "Caesar's right. This has been the first year, Haymitch and I haven't had to beg on a bended knee for our district's sponsors. And, like Caesar said, the outcome isn't predetermined. So if there's a vote, I'm definitely for giving Peeta and Katniss the chance to both make it to the end." _Clever Effie,_ I think, _raising the possibility of a vote, at least that way, maybe we'll have a shot_.

"I agree," Haymitch says, and I resist the temptation to hug him. "If they pull that off, they'll have the goodwill of all Panem. Think how high the ratings will be for their Victory Tour."

This is also an excellent point. Unlike the Games' viewing, the Victory Tour isn't mandatory. I can see President Snow considering what we've said. He gets up and moves off until he's looking out the window. Stalling for time, I would imagine. He looks, as usual, immaculate, with a white rose in his buttonhole, but I can see tension lines marring his very likely face-lifted forehead. After a few minutes each of which seem like an eternity, he swivels to face us, and a sickly sweet scent (later I realize that it's blood) makes me struggle not to gag.

We take a vote, and it passes that, if Katniss and Peeta survive until tomorrow, the new rule will be that there can be two winners.

They're safe. For now.

* * *

Haymitch and I watch the rest of the Games together. Before, I would say that even when we were sitting side-by-side, there was a barrier between us. Now, even under unhappy circumstances, it's come down, and we're on the same side. We watch as Katniss and Peeta battle the remaining Careers, and successfully fight them to the death, even when the Gamemakers turn the slain Tributes into muttations, a vile trick but one that I have to admit must be keeping all of Panem glued to their screens.

And then the Gamemakers throw a bombshell - the rules change yet again, and only one Tribute can survive.

But they don't waver. Taking out a handful of nightlock berries, Katniss hands some to Peeta. They prepare to swallow. My own throat feels choked - it's as if I'm watching n slow motion and can't look away. President Snow lied. Which shouldn't surprise me, but it does. How well he played us yesterday - letting us "vote," as if we all really had a say in this, a voice.

I cannot believe how naïve I've been. I don't have an excuse - I've been doing this for years, and yet I fell right into his trap. Though perhaps President Snow only pretended to go back on his word. But that's bad enough. Still... _look on the bright side_ , a voice whispers in my head. _They've won. We've won. For the first time ever in Games' history, two Tributes from the same District are going home together._

Maybe that's enough. I don't know. I feel exhausted, as if I've been the one fighting alongside our Tributes in the arena, so I can't imagine how they must feel. Still, what can we do, but applaud for Katniss and Peeta, for their bravery and resilience, for having done something that's just made Games' history?

"We won," I say, pasting on a bright smile, knowing that soon we'll have to wade out and face the cameras. "Isn't this amazing?"

Haymitch doesn't look at me. "We haven't won yet."

I don't know what he's getting at, but I play along. "What do you mean?"

"You think the Games are over, and that Peeta and the Mockingjay will live happily ever after?" he snaps, and for the first time since we've left the President's inner chamber, I feel distance between us. I'd feel hurt, if any of this was about me, but it's not.

"No," I say. "No, I don't think that. But at least both of our Tributes are going home in one piece. Alive."

"Yes," Haymitch says darkly, "and after they've been buffed and polished and stuffed with all the nutrition they've been missing, then the fun really begins. I have a feeling that once they've been restored to normal - at least on the outside - they will both be receiving a visit from someone - I won't say who, but he'll be preceded by a very sickly scent."

I don't know why I didn't think it through before - maybe there's still a part of me even after all this, that wants to believe in happy endings, but he's right.

The Games are far from over. Once I would have thought otherwise. But now I understand.

They're only just beginning.

Haymitch extracts himself from the plushy leather recliner and stands.

"Come on," he says, holding out his hand. "It's time to present a united front. Let's go face the music."

There's still a lot I don't understand about what just happened, and I'm not talking only about what's occurred in the arena.

But I reapply my smile and take his hand. We walk past the other mentors, feeling their polite but envious looks following us, as we step outside the room into a sea of microphones and flashbulbs.

Together. At least for now.


	7. Chapter 7

It's been three weeks since a handful of nightlock berries brought Katniss and Peeta a first ever dual victory in Hunger Games history. I'm sitting across from Mrs. Everdeen, teacups balanced on our knees discussing things we would rather not. She doesn't strike you on first impression as being particularly strong, but the truth is that she's survived the loss of her husband, the reaping of her youngest, and the recent Games, and she's still functioning - something I'm not so sure I - or my own mother - would be able to do in her place.

"Ms. Trinket," she begins, placing her cup on the coffee table.

"Effie, please," I said, but she doesn't acknowledge that. Not that I really expect her to. She strikes me, too, as a no-nonsense woman, not one with a lot of patience for false friendship. Not that I wouldn't like to be her friend, but we both know that's impossible.

"...I'd like to thank you for all the help you've given my daughter. I know it's your job, but I'm sure at least some of your efforts helped Katniss survive."

This is flattering, but I'm not at all sure it's true. Although since the Games ended, I've heard more than one similar suggestion. I expect Haymitch selects something from his arsenal of rude remarks, but I just blush and fumble around for a suitably modest (and honest) reply.

"Well, she's a remarkable young woman in her own right. Both Haymitch and I were impressed from the start with her. She's so..." I trail off, fishing for an appropriate word. Assertive? Headstrong? Infuriating? None quite fit. So I settle for, "I can see where she got her strength from. I can't imagine what that must have been like, especially after what (almost) happened to Prim."

She nods, picks the cup back up and stares inside like she's reading my fortune. "Well, I'll be honest with you - if you won't repeat this?" I shake my head in assent. "I'm still in shock that my daughter has managed to survive. I'll be able to see her soon, after the Capitol finishes performing its medical magic." She grimaces, and I remember that she, too, is a physician of sorts, a skilled herbalist and healer who is well-known in District 12 as a miracle worker. But what must she think of the Capitol doctors who can restore her daughter's hearing, smooth and polish her skin until it's again scar-free, and even provide Peeta with a new leg (though he's elected for an artificial one)? What kind of healer would she have been with their training?

Realizing my attention is drifting, I yank it back into place and make sure I'm watching Mrs. Everdeen with the appropriate amount of sympathy. Which I do feel, it's just that I'm still fatigued from my trip to her district. I've already visited the Mellarks. _One down, and one to go_. Not that means I don't care about what she's going to tell me.

At first, I think she's not going to speak after all, but then she does.

"Tell me the truth. Do you think Katniss is really in love with that boy?"

Her question drops like a stone in a well, sending splashes flying up. I struggle to keep my composure while my mind races. Should I tell her what I (and Haymitch) think is the truth? Will that put her at risk with President Snow? I can't possibly be responsible for an ounce more of pain this family has suffered. But somehow, I find myself telling her what I believe.

"Frankly, I don't. I think she cares a great deal for him, but as a friend. Of course, they've now got an unbreakable bond, but as for true love, I don't think so." There. I took a risk, but I think, after all the games that have been played, a little honesty is in order.

Mrs. Everlark nods. "That's what I thought. I know my daughter, and I would know if she were truly in love with someone. However, she's now got to pretend that she is, and that's not something that comes to Katniss easily. Pretense, I mean. She's like her father in that regard."

I gulp. "I know she's not good at acting. But Haymitch is going to have a talk with her - as am I, when she's better - about the importance of coming off convincingly as boyfriend and girlfriend." That's a clumsy way to put it, but using the word "lovers," feels inappropriate even risqué.

"Good. That's settled then." Mrs. Everlark smiles at me, but I can tell she's faking it. "Though, let's hope as the mother, I have at least some say." I can't tell whether or not she's joking. "More tea?"

"No thanks, I'm fine." I grit my teeth and jump ahead to more business. "It's not for awhile yet, but the Victory Tour is going to be what I would imagine an ordeal for Katniss - and Peeta. But both Haymitch and I are here anytime if she needs us." I reach into my handbag and extract two pieces of paper, both of which I've had since I began my job as mentor but have never actually used. "This is an official congratulatory letter from President Snow. And this is the key to your new home in the Victors' Village."

She takes both like they're rotten banana peels, which I suppose in a way, they are. "Well, thank you. I'm sure it's all just lovely. Not that we'll have many neighbors."

"No," I say. "Just Haymitch." _Who may be worse than having no neighbors at all.' What a lonely place it must be to live._

Sensing that she'd rather this visit was over, I rise and pull on my coat. "Well, I must be off, Mrs. Everdeen. Thank you very much for meeting with me. I'm sure your schedule is as busy as mine. If you have any questions or concerns. please don't hesitate to call me. My number's written at the top of the letter," I add lamely. "Any time, feel free, it's not a problem at all." _Now I'm babbling. Some situations, Mother, cannot be navigated effortlessly, regardless of all the etiquette in the world._

Closing the door behind me, the air is sharp, and the forecast, I remember, is for snow. Hurrying to meet the train back to the Capitol, I feel as if I've emerged from a dark tunnel. My fellow Mentors have told me that meeting with the Victors' parents is hard the first time, but you soon get used to it. The Victory Tour, they say, is quite a lark, getting to see all the districts. Well, Haymitch is the only one of us who knows for sure - and if I know him, I suspect he has a different view.

I see the steam curling into the air and hear the whistle, as the train lurches to a halt, and dash over to the platform. No one is there except a porter, who gives me a polite but disinterested nod. "Your baggage, Miss?"

I hoist the single bag. "Just this. Don't worry, I can get it." Usually, I don't travel light, but since this wasn't an overnight visit, I took only what I needed. The porter nods again, as I step into the warm train car. "Have a good trip home, then," he says, as the door closes, and I hurry to my seat. As I settle in, I sigh in relief. Compared to Katniss's mother, Peeta's parents were much easier, more gracious. Despite the fact that thanks to our President's barbaric games, their son now has an artificial leg and doubtless will suffer what most Victors do: anxiety, nightmares, even memory problems. At least, I can't see either Katniss or Peeta taking to drink the way Haymitch did. As far as I know, too, the President has not done what he sometimes does and "disposed" of certain loved ones - as a warning that no one is safe from his reach - not even in victory.

I expect that the Tour will be hard for Katniss and Peeta, as well as settling back into their old routines. I expect it won't be easy on either of them to come face-to-face with the families of the Tributes that they killed.

I'm so busy expecting things for other people that the last thing I expect is what happens the next day.

End


	8. Chapter 8

There's nothing like a distraction to take your mind off more important things - Mother said that, and so the next day I go shopping for the new wig I plan to wear on the Victory Tour. My hot pink one is rapidly wearing out - they don't make wigs the way they used to - another saying of Mother's. Besides, I need something to take my mind off yesterday's visit to District 12. There, despite the fact that both their Tributes were coming home safely, the mood was rather sober, but here in the Capitol, everything feels festive. People can't stop gossiping about Katniss and Peeta, the not-so-star-crossed-after-all lovers. Everyone loves an underdog - at least, after they've triumphed. And I also get a few nods and squeals of recognition when I bump into several friends and acquaintances who congratulate me on their - excuse me, **our** \- winning. Everyone assumes I must be over the moon that now I'll finally get promoted to a decent district, but as I said before, I don't quite feel the joy they're expecting. Still, I mask this well, I think, after all, I've had years of practice. I don't think anyone is able to tell from looking at me that I have qualms and doubts about the recent Games.

After several detours and impromptu conversations, I end up in the same shop where I purchased my last wig, and after the saleswoman shows me the latest they've just gotten in - in a daring, but still perfectly darling shade of pumpkin - I can't resist. As I pay for my purchase, I see yet another acquaintance and when I'm finished being run up, I do something most unlike me, I duck out of the shop in the opposite direction. I know it's terrible, but I'm simply not in the mood for another chat about the Games.

As I head for home, I imagine the nice hot cup of tea, cozy armchair and half-finished romance novel waiting for me - my reward after having braved such a frigid day. But when I look again - I see a most unwelcome sight. I blink my eyes, hoping it's a hallucination brought on by the chill, but no, it's not.

So much for distraction.

President Snow is standing outside his car, flanked by bodyguards - at least, I assume that's their function - and when he catches sight of me, he beams. "Ms. Trinket, what a splendid surprise! I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by. I do hope you'll allow me to come inside. I won't stay long - I just had a few things I wanted to tell you, and then I'll be on my way."

 _In the neighborhood, my...foot_ , I think, my years of being ladylike catching me just in time before I curse. But I simply smile back - hopefully betraying no sign of my inner worry. "Of course! I'm honored that you stopped by. Do come in, it's such a nasty day, isn't it?" Now I'm definitely babbling, but that's in character for me, so I doubt he notices anything amiss. "Cup of tea to take the chill off?"

He smiles again, as charming as ever. "I hate for you to go to all this trouble, but if you don't mind...it **would** be lovely."

 _Lovely, my...well, never mind._ "Of course," I chirp, and put the kettle on. While the water boils, I take down a box of tea, choose two bags, and after a bit of rummaging in the cupboard, and unearth the box of fancy cookies I keep for my young nieces when they visit and arrange some on a plate. In truth, I welcome the distraction - it buys me time to figure out how to handle this. More or less.

"I see you went shopping," President Snow comments. "I hope your mission was successful."

My smile freezes a little at this but soon unsticks and behaves as usual. "Oh, I just got a new wig for the Victory Tour." I know what he's about to discuss, and I know he's simply using this as a springboard of sorts, so I take a seat - a castoff my great aunt gave me when I got my first place - and wait. No longer does the armchair tempt me - I want something that makes me look a little more unyielding. Anything to give me a slight advantage, though I doubt he even notices.

"Yes, the Tour," he continues, and once again, I catch that odd scent, though he's tried to mask it with some manly, woodsy-smelling cologne. "You must be thrilled to finally get to experience one."

 _Careful, Effie. He has something up his sleeve, which you're probably not going to like._ "Well, it's definitely an honor. The other Mentors tell me it's quite something, getting to see all the other districts." _At least, that's not a lie._

"These are delicious cookies," the President says, as he takes a second. "Family recipe?"

 _Hardly._ "Store-bought, I'm afraid. I keep them for when my nieces visit."

He raises an eyebrow. "Do you see them often?"

"Not as much as I would like," I parry, "but then, the Games has kept me so busy, as of late."

The President stares past me at something fascinating, but all I see are the usual prints: one of flowers, one of a girl in a sailor dress hugging her knees as she watches the sea. "Yes, family is something that too often gets neglected when we're absorbed in our jobs. But I did enjoy watching the recent Games with my granddaughter. She was quite taken with Katniss. Even told me the girls at her school have started wearing their hair in braids." He stretches his lips, but even a blind person could tell that it's not quite a smile. "Our Mockingjay is quite the heroine, isn't she?"

 **Now** , I'm starting to get why he's here. But I just smile back. "She is. Her prep team is planning some very special in the makeover department before her Tour."

"Indeed," he says. "It struck me the other day that our Mockingjay is more of a phoenix, if you wish to be symbolic about it." He smiled. "Personally, I'm not a big fan of the birds myself. Too impudent. It's admirable, the way they thrive in adversity, but well, I find them lacking in other ways."

I nod.

"Are you interested in birds, Ms. Trinket?"

"Well," I hedge, "I've never given them much thought one way or the other, but my mother had a canary for a period when I was a girl. Back when they were all the rage."

President Snow puts down his teacup. "Ah, canaries. Lovely birds. So everlastingly cheerful. No tricks up their sleeves, are there?"

I know there's a hidden message in all of this, but I'll figure it out later after he's left. "By the way, I visited the Everdeens and Mellarks yesterday. To give them their letter and keys." I'm sure he already knows this, but one has to say something.

"Ah yes. I'm sure the Everdeen family is especially thrilled to be moving to the Victors Village. Such wretched living conditions in the Seam, don't you agree?"

 _Yes, conditions that you are somewhat responsible for, don't you think?_ In order to have something to fiddle with, I pick up my teacup again. I twirl it around in around in my hands, until I'm afraid I'm going to inadvertently squeeze it to shreds. But my voice remains calm as I reply.

"Quite."

There is another silence, and this time, I don't scramble to fill it. After a few agonizing minutes, however, the President does. "I expect Mrs. Everdeen had something to say about her daughter's new boyfriend."

And that's when I figure out why he's here. I may be slow on the uptake and too willing to believe the best of people but not any longer. At least not with this man. "She wasn't too happy, no. She believes that Katniss is too young to date. Although I believe she approves of Peeta as her daughter's friend."

The unspoken words hang between us. _Too young to date,_ I think, _but not too young to die._

The President tsk-tsks in what I'm sure he thinks is a paternal manner, but in actuality makes me suppress a shiver. "Poor woman, it must be hard for her to see her little girl growing up so fast. I know as a parent, there's a part of you that wishes your child could stay young forever."

"It must be difficult," I agree. Not being a parent myself, I can hardly say I know just what he means. Suddenly, I feel an unexpected wave of boldness. "President Snow, did you have something specific you wanted to tell me?" _Apart from your thoughts on birds and parenthood, that is?_

There. For a moment, I regret the bluntness, wish I could somehow take the words back, but maybe this will get him out of here quicker. One can hope.

A brief flicker of confusion flashes across his face - but is soon replaced with the usual amiable mask he wears when he is trying to convey that he, too, is human. "Indeed, Ms. Trinket," he says. "Thank you for reminding me. I wanted to warn you that there has been some...unrest in several districts. Probably nothing to worry about, but we will be increasing security on the Victory Tour."

 _And you simply couldn't have **sent** me a memo on this? _"Er...that sounds like a good idea." Years of ingrained etiquette almost gets the better of me and make me offer him more tea, but I resist.

"Yes," he adds smoothly. "After all, we don't want to risk our newest Victors. Especially, as the Quarter Quell will be coming up before we know it, and they will be back in the spotlight."

Again, I smell that noxious scent - but how in the world, could I be smelling blood? No, it must be my overactive imagination.

President Snow rises, signaling the end (thank goodness) of the visit. "Well, it was lovely to see you, Ms. Trinket. Have a pleasant afternoon."

Surprisingly enough, that is the last thing I have. After he leaves, I lean against the door, shaking. Then I phone Haymitch who, for once, thankfully doesn't sound drunk.

"You had _who_ over? Slow down, Effie, I can hardly understand you." _Oops, I guess I was babbling._ "Take a deep breath and start from the beginning."

So I do.

Long silence when I finish, but finally Haymitch asks if the president threatened me.

"No. Or rather, if he did, it was all very coded. Do you really think my family could be in danger?"

Another long pause. "I don't know, but anything's possible now. Have you heard about the uprising in several districts? Apparently, our Mockingjay has lit quite a fire underneath some people."

"President Snow told me, and I saw something in the paper. Is it serious, do you think?" Usually, Haymitch's bluntness annoys me, but today, I'm more than grateful for knowing he won't lie to me.

"Could be. If we're lucky."

 _What?_ "What do you mean, _we..._ "

So he tells me. And this time, it's the truth.

 _To be continued_


End file.
